Always for a Lady
by Scarlet Secret
Summary: After the death of her husband, Lady Byrne seeks a swift solace of sorts with Connie. And Connie is quite happy to oblige a lady such as her. Connie's POV thoughout.


A/N: Don't own anything. If did, this would have happened at the end of the episode.

Exactly twelve minutes after you have recorded the time of death of her husband Lady Byrne (Dowager you suppose now) follows you into your office. Presumably she has got rid of her son after offering him as much consolation as possible; having nearly lost your own father recently you can sympathise with the young man.

Two minutes after she arrives, and without a word passing her lips, you have abandoned the safety of your desk, offered your own heartfelt consolations (because really, you did quite like her late husband), attempted to hug her, awkwardly, sentiment never really was your strong point. But you carry on regardless. You don't understand sentiment and sympathy and pity (the thing you fear most) but you understand taking comfort. So when she drops her briefcase, decisively closes the blinds and kisses you roughly, you let her.

Letting her is so much easier than attempting conversation. It doesn't bother you really and after your daughter was born it has been a while and her soft, strong, slender hands wrapping themselves around the back of your head are rather welcome in all honesty.

You don't really think about the ethics of the situation at all. Don't query that it is you she came to after you couldn't save her husband. Don't wonder if she is trying to continue the family trait of liaisons with inappropriate surgeons. You argue in your mind that you are not really inappropriate as her wonderful, wonderful hands divest you of the top half of your scrubs. You are certainly not using her for you own advancement. This is for her, because you always liked her. Even when she burst into your office and accused you of being her husband's mistress you liked her.

It doesn't occur to you until now that she assumed you were the whore the rumours said you were. You never really thought it was true yourself. Never felt like you were doing anything particularly wrong as you pitched your flag of conquest on many of the staff, with a husband at home. And it isn't until now that you feel like a whore.

You begin to compare yourself with her. The small amount of eyeliner you put on that morning seems to dominate your face when you see yourself reflected in the window when she spins you round until you face away from her. You think you look like a cheap tart in the make-up, with nothing covering your torso (she had removed your bra without you even realising) and making small noises of protest when she stops kissing you and her hands remove themselves from your breasts.

You realise also that you have not being generous as you usually are and she is still completely clothed and really quite spectacularly un-ruffled. You have a quick flashback of being at sixth form and it's somebody's 18th birthday party and you kissed the other girls as a dare. Then it had been amusing and vaguely exciting. But nothing from that day to this had prepared you for an immaculately groomed woman – no lady really, because even without the title she was more of a lady than anybody you could ever hope to meet again in your life – would push you against your own hard-earner desk and inch her hands down your scrubs.

You felt somewhat betrayed by your own, not inexperienced body that you begin groaning, albeit softly, and moving so her hand brushes your underwear and your forcing yourself not to fall back against her because then you'll get your perspiration on her beautiful suit. The kind of suit that if you wore it would be darker and tighter and really quite slutty and you suddenly glad that she found you in your scrubs.

Her hand travels over the waistband and you wonder for the first time if she will expect anything in return for this, or if she even knows what she's doing at all right now. You're quite convinced she does, because bereavement aside she is not the sort of woman to lose control of her senses. Satisfied she at least remembers who you are you smile and gasp when long, elegant fingers begin to dance around the throbbing point of your arousal. At that moment you remember she has two hands and whilst one is busy beneath your lacy knickers that even your current critical mind can not find fault with, the other is pinching and rubbing alternate nipples. You register that this hurts a little but it sends enough jolts through to the pit of your stomach that you really don't mind. Grace bites anyway.

There is a degree of shock when you feel hot, soft lips on your throat (you had closed your eyes when the hands descended) and with a jolt your eyes fly open and you can see yourself in the window. To your immense pleasure, and you suspect hers too, you have never looked quite so debauched in all your life. Flushed and writhing, with half-lidded eyes you think nothing you have experienced up to this point, no matter how elaborate, can quite compare to those hands roaming you whilst her mouth sweeps your neck, her silken stands of hair brush you face and the perfume you have come to associate with money fills your head.

You remind yourself this is happening and is not just some fantasy you cooked up as a schoolgirl about the pretty girl you'd always walk past on your walk home. This was a lady; the kind that you didn't think existed. The ones with their own style and their clipped accents that made you weak (and always made you embarrassed by your own cockney drawl) and sleek, wavy hair and not too much eye make-up and their elongated fingers, perfect for playing the piano and - hitting that spot right there!

You moan again and try to hold out longer so you focus on her in the window although she does not seem to be doing the same, seeming more interested in making marks on your throat. And suddenly you realise why she is doing this. Her husband's betrayal hurt her vanity and pride and so she comes in here and has you on your desk (now it is no longer adultery) and she needs you to take absolutely everything. Needs you to scream and moan and buckle and grip onto the desk and breathe her name. It must be her. And you will do this because she is a lady and she just seems superior to you and you owe it to her now and besides which she is terribly good at this and you suspect its not the first time she's done it. But you still feel quite privileged.

Beginning to ride against her hand now you stare at yourself and her but it is not quite enough and you allow yourself to drift into fantasy to help you help her. Despite yourself, and though you know she probably won't want to, you think of what comes next. You think of mussing her hair and smearing her make-up, removing her clothes and throwing them haphazardly until they are creased for the first time in their existence. You would still be surrounded by the scent and (in a gesture of being gentle) would push her onto the sofa in the room and…

You have very clear images of yourself with your head fixed between her legs whilst she screams your name above you and when she finishes she smiles for the first time that night and you climb into her lap and kiss her again.

It is this thought that drives you over the edge. You make a point of moaning her name, even though you fully intended to anyway and her fingers continue pumping and teasing through the waves that hit you until you collapse on the desk. Slowly she removes her hand from between your legs and seems to gesture with it vaguely before you clutch it and lead to the scrubs. You reason they would be covered in your scent anyway and will need washing so you allow her to wipe her hands on the front of your trousers, agonisingly close to your crotch, close enough you feel sparks again.

She has to tug at your grasp before you remember to let go of her hand and you spend a while staring at her in the reflection before realising you are probably permitted to turn around now. You do marvel at how she can be so composed still but you notice the tiniest flush across her neck when she has no choice but to stare a your breasts (of which you have always been rather proud) and the flush spreads slowly up to her ears.

You smile fondly and begin undressing her, careful to keep the clothes away from anything that might leave too much of scent and changing you mind to crumple them when you feel the quality of the material. She lets you do it and her gaze never leaves your face. When she is divested of most of her clothing she smiles thankfully at you and you ease her onto the sofa because really pushing somebody such as her seems rough and therefore out of the question.

You feel like you are bowing to a Goddess when you kneel before her and the reverential feeling that washes over you doesn't leave when the marvellous perfume comes towards you.

Because of you she is already sated really, having re-affirmed herself in your screams as a lady of considerable worth, and when you need to finally, finally tear apart your image of the unbreakable she shifts her legs apart a little and reciprocates the favour.


End file.
